© 2005 by Gilbert Morris
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners.
ISBN 978-1-4412-7058-0
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
Cover illustration by William Graf
Cover design by Danielle White
To Ann Carroll
This is a dark world we live in, but there are some people who bring light into it. You, my dear sister, are one of those light-bearers, and I thank God for your bright and generous spirit. Your ministry to others (especially to my niece Ginger!) has been a source of joy to me. Your record is on high!
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
PART ONE
February-March 1935
1. A Rose for Bertha
2. Out of the Past
3. The Trail Is Too Old
4. The Winslows Find Their Man
5. On the Trail
6. The Ring of Death
7. Heading East Again
8. “Don’t You Like Women?”
PART TWO
April 1935
9. An Unwelcome Announcement
10. A New Family Member
11. Grace’s Night Out
12. The Party
13. “Jesus Loves Misfits”
14. “What Do You Really Want?”
15. The Last Straw
PART THREE
April-June 1935
16. In the Slammer
17. A Place for Kevin
18. Babe
19. Grace Gets a Touch
20. A Busy Night at the Green Lantern
21. Grace Abounding
PART FOUR
September-November 1935
22. A Moonlit Dance
23. Lucy’s Reluctance
24. A New Kevin
25. Old Flame
26. A Close Call
27. Babe’s Admonition
28. A New Grace
29. “My Francis”
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
A Rose for Bertha
The small greenhouse was brilliant with colors—vivid reds, greens, blues—all contrasting violently with the grim, gray world that surrounded it. Father Anthony Mazzoni, chaplain at the New York State Women’s Prison, often said wryly that he was a creator of worlds. Not of the world, of course. That, naturally, was the prerogative of God, who made all things. But within the prison confines of concrete, steel, and misery, Mazzoni had managed to create a tiny refuge—a world of his own that burgeoned with fragrant flowers and shimmering color.
Mazzoni smiled as he thought of his battles with Warden Rockland over this greenhouse. “You’re here to save the miserable souls of these women, Father, not grow petunias!” the warden would say, though not always so politely. The humble priest chose not to remember the sizzling profanity that usually laced the warden’s arguments. As he deftly pinched off a faded violet, he relived the moment he had finally obtained the warden’s permission. He had set about the work immediately, erecting the small greenhouse in one corner of the prison yard, complete with heater and tubing, at his own expense and on his own time.
The years of dealing with women who had reached the end of everything good in life had left the tall man stooped and gray-haired, with a fine network of wrinkles across his pale face. His energetic dark eyes, however, revealed a vibrant spirit within the aging body. As he moved among the fragile flowers, savoring their fragrance and delighting in the rich dignity of their colors, he paused before his pride and joy—a graceful long-stemmed rose. He plucked off a dead leaf, then added a pinch of fertilizer from a paper bag and stood back to admire the elegant flower.
He heard the door behind him open and he turned to see Warden Rockland, with his usual grim expression. Inmates and guards alike called him the Great Stone Face, and he had a temperament to match. He was no more than five-six, but his huge shoulders and limbs and deep chest gave him the appearance of a human tank. People tended to move out of the way when he entered a room.
“Good morning, Warden,” Mazzoni said with a smile.
Rockland had a habit of carefully observing his surroundings upon entering any room, and he ruled this prison with an iron fist—not unlike a tyrannical dictator over a small country. “Morning,” he grunted, and then his eyes narrowed. “You know Bertha Zale?”
“Yes, of course.”
“She’s dying,” Rockland said bluntly. “You’d better get down there and fire off a few prayers to heaven. Not that there is a heaven,” he said defiantly. Rockland delighted in ridiculing Mazzoni’s faith. For four years now he had tried to shake the chaplain’s calm, but without success. “The poor woman’s got the notion that there’s pie up there in that sky. Thinks she’s gonna be sittin’ around pluckin’ on a harp for the rest of eternity. Well, Chaplain, you’d better hurry. She’s not gonna last long.” He hesitated, and then his mouth drew into a thin line. “ ‘Course, you can pray all you want, but it won’t make any difference. There’s nothing out there. When we die, we’re gone—just like dumb animals.”
Upon hearing the warden’s defiance, Father Mazzoni had a rare flash of inspiration. He remembered the one decoration on Rockland’s office wall—a black-and-white portrait of a woman with a strong face and a pair of fine eyes. The warden had never mentioned her, but Mazzoni had noted a family resemblance and strongly suspected it was Rockland’s mother. “I don’t expect your mother would feel that way, would she, Warden?” He saw something flicker in the warden’s eyes, as if he’d touched a nerve. But Rockland spun on his heel and left without a word.
After cutting a white rose for Bertha and hanging up his tools, Mazzoni left the greenhouse and made his way through the labyrinthine passageways of the prison, barred at intervals by guarded steel gates. He greeted every guard by name, as he did the inmates he passed. When he reached the door marked Hospital, he stepped inside, where he was greeted by a small man with cadaverous cheeks and moody eyes. “You’ve come to see Bertha, I suppose.”
“Yes, Dr. Zambrinski.”
“You’d better hurry, Father. She’s almost gone.”
Mazzoni moved toward the corner that the physician indicated and found Bertha Zale lying under a thin white sheet. Mazzoni leaned forward, the rose in his hand. “Bertha, can you hear me?” He thought for a moment that she was already gone, but then her eyelashes fluttered and watery eyes stared vacantly from her emaciated face. Her lips were as dry as fall leaves as she whispered, “Father?”
“Yes, Bertha, it’s me. Would you like to confess?”
The dying woman nodded slowly and gasped out more sins than the priest thought possible for one person to commit. Finally her voice faded and her eyes closed.
Father Mazzoni thought the woman was finished, but her eyes opened again, and she said in a clearer voice, “One more ... sin, Father.”
Mazzoni listened to her final confession, spoken with unmistakable clarity. Then her voice faded and her eyes shut aga
in. He hastily administered extreme unction, and by the time he had finished, Bertha Zale was gone.
Mazzoni studied the ashen face, worn with troubles and furrowed with lines brought on by hard living. He gently placed the white rose in the gaunt hand. He bowed his head and prayed for her, then turned and walked slowly away.
Dr. Zambrinski met him and asked, “Is she gone, Father?”
“Yes, she is.”
“Well, it had to come. She’s probably glad to be finished with the pain.” He had learned to take death almost matter-of-factly. “We’ll arrange for the funeral to be held this afternoon.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
The priest heavily retraced his steps back along the corridor, speaking automatically to the guards and inmates who greeted him. When he finally stepped out into the yard, a blast of cold air struck him, and he straightened for a moment. He made his way toward the greenhouse, his thin shoulders slumped as if an unbearable burden had been dumped on them.
I thought I’d heard everything, he thought, but not this! Mazzoni was not easily shocked, for he had heard every imaginable sin whispered into his ears. But what Bertha Zale had told him was like nothing he had ever heard before.
“I’ve got to do something about it ... but what?”
When he reached the greenhouse, he saw Rockland approaching. “She’s dead?” the warden demanded abruptly.
“Yes, she’s gone.”
Rockland shrugged his beefy shoulders. “Well, it’s all over for her. Too bad.”
Mazzoni did not answer. He watched as the warden wheeled his bulk around and plunged across the yard. The priest entered the greenhouse and stood quietly in front of a rosebush. He thought of the white rose that now rested in the dead woman’s still hands and whispered, “It may be over for you, Bertha, but it’s not over for me.”
CHAPTER TWO
Out of the Past
“But, Dad, you can’t possibly wear that ratty old suit! Why, you look like a ... a garbage collector!”
Phil Winslow leaned back in his chair, turning his head to one side and lifting an eyebrow. “I can’t believe you’re insulting my suit like that!”
Twenty-year-old Paige Winslow had her mother’s abundance of soft brown hair, which beautifully shaped her delicate features and small frame. Her fashionable short-sleeved dress was of white silk with a print of large green ferns. It had a V neck, a tie belt around the waist, a shaped bodice, and a mid-calf length, which showed off her white leather high heels. She stood in front of her father but flashed her mother a look of despair. “Mom, you’re not going to let him wear that grubby old suit, are you?”
“Your father usually does what he wants to do.” Cara Winslow’s voice was gentle, as was everything about her manner and appearance. She looked much younger than her fifty-eight years as she smiled at her daughter. “I think the suit looks very nice, and your father looks wonderful in it.”
Paige shook her head almost angrily. “But, Mother, it’s so out of fashion! He’ll be the only one there who’s not dressed properly.”
“This suit was good enough for the Prince of Wales,” Phil said, straightening up. Whenever he got upset, he drew his eyebrows together, which put two upright creases between them. He was a fine-looking man, three years younger than his wife, with auburn hair that was still fiery under the sun. He had the typical Winslow wedge-shaped face and cornflower blue eyes. His hands were not the hands of an artist—which he was—but rather of a workingman. He had been a cowhand in his youth, working on his father’s ranch, and something of the western air still clung to him even after years in Europe and more years of successful painting in America. Now he suddenly got to his feet, towering over his wife and daughter. He was very fond of his daughter but worried about her social aspirations. “Now, Paige,” he said patiently, “your mother and I agreed to go to this party, and we will. But you remember what Thoreau said.”
“What did he say, dear?” Cara asked. “
“ ‘Beware any enterprise that requires the purchase of new clothes.’ He was mostly a windy old bore, but at least he hit it right that time.”
“Mother, you’ll just have to do something with him.” Paige fled the drawing room, closing the door behind her with more force than was necessary.
Phil sighed, walked back to his favorite chair, and slumped down. “I suppose I’ll have to buy a new suit,” he grumbled. “But it goes against the grain.”
Cara came over to stand behind her husband and ran her hand over his crisp hair, smiling at him with admiration. “Yes, I think you will, dear. This one is a bit worn, and even the Prince of Wales isn’t as society-minded as Paige’s future in-laws.”
The mention of the Asquiths, the parents of Paige’s fiancé, John, brought back the two vertical lines between Phil’s eyebrows. “I wouldn’t say anything in front of Paige, but to tell you the truth, John’s parents give me a pain in the—”
“Now, don’t say that!” Cara interrupted. “It would hurt her feelings. But I will admit they are a little into social climbing.”
“A little! Why, they make the Astors look like alley rats!” he exclaimed. “I’d hoped that John wouldn’t be as much of a snob as his parents, but they’ve made a pretty strong impact on him.”
“I know, dear, but he’s young enough to change. He’s really a sweet boy.”
“He’s a mama’s boy, that’s what he is. When his mama hollers frog, he jumps!”
“Don’t be so hasty about your judgments,” she chided, though in reality she too was concerned about Paige’s upcoming marriage into the snobbish Asquith family. She had tried to question Paige about this, but her daughter did not seem in the least perturbed by the thought of marrying into such a socially prominent family. In fact, she appeared to relish the idea. Cara did not think there was much use in arguing about it with Phil, however, nor was there time now to discuss it. “I think I hear the thundering herd,” she said, turning her head.
Phil got up from his chair and headed toward the entryway. Before he got there, three children rushed in, clamoring for attention. Four-year-old Scott led the pack, and Phil scooped him into his arms and tossed him up toward the ceiling.
Logan, one year younger, went to Cara, who knelt down to hug him. She also put her arm around Angel, who at a couple months shy of two years was often overrun by her rowdy brothers. As Cara hugged the two youngest, she was struck by how much Scott and Logan had inherited their father’s good looks—who, in turn, had gotten his from his own father. Angel, however, with clear blue eyes and blond hair, looked more like her mother, Joan.
“Kids, you can’t stampede into your grandparents’ drawing room like wild bulls!” Brian Winslow, at the age of twenty-five, was as tall as his father, with the same auburn hair and light blue eyes. He had married Joan Gladden when they were both only twenty and had produced three children in rapid succession. Brian had the look of a successful lawyer, which he was, and of an astute businessman, which he also was.
Cara stood up to take his kiss and smiled. “You don’t have to leave so soon, do you?” Brian and his family had been over for a Saturday afternoon visit and now it was time to leave.
“I’m afraid we do, Mom,” Brian said, hugging her. “I would think you’ve had enough of these red Indians anyway.”
“I’m not a red Indian!” Scott piped up.
“I am!” Logan said. “I’m a red Indian.”
“Boys, you don’t have to yell.” Joan Winslow was a bright young woman with blond hair and striking good looks. She came over and stood beside her father-in-law. “When are you two going to come see us for a change? We always have to come over here.”
“I ought to take you up on your invitation. Come and eat you out of house and home.” Phil was very fond of his daughter-in-law, and now he reached out and hugged her. “We’ll talk it over. Maybe next Saturday or Sunday.”
“You know what we should do,” Brian said. “We should all go on a trip together. Go down south and get out
of this cold weather. I’ve never seen such a February.” The winter of 1935 had indeed brought unrelentingly frigid weather to New York, and all of the Winslows were looking forward to spring.
The children started jumping up and down, shouting, “When are we going? When are we going?”
“Brian, haven’t I told you not to say things like that in front of the children?” Joan said to her husband. “You know they always want it right away.”
“They get that from their mother.” Brian winked at his mother, then said, “Come along, kids, we’ve got to go.”
“We’ll go out and see you safely off,” Cara said.
The little procession made its way out of the house, and as they passed through the ornate foyer, Phil had a strange feeling. He looked around the luxurious furnishings and towering ceiling and remembered the plain house of his childhood on his parents’ ranch out west. I never thought I’d be living in a mansion like this, he thought, and sometimes I wish I weren’t. Of course, he said none of this aloud. No one but Cara knew he ever had such thoughts.
When they reached the driveway, it took them some time to get the children into the Studebaker. “It’s easier to put cats in a sack than kids in a car,” Phil quipped as he picked up Logan, stuffed him in, and shut the door firmly. Immediately the window rolled down and three little heads stuck out, all shouting their good-byes and looking for kisses from both grandparents.
“We’ll see you soon,” Scott said. “Don’t forget to bring me a present, Grandpa.”
The engine roared, and Brian steered the car out of the circular driveway. Phil reached over and put his arm around Cara. “Those are some grandchildren we’ve got there.” Something caught his eye and his lids narrowed. “Who in the world is that?”
Cara turned to see a taxi driving up. “I’m not expecting anyone,” she said.
The two stood waiting until the cab stopped. After a moment’s pause, the door opened and a tall elderly man in the garb of a priest stepped out.
“A priest! Why would he be coming here?” Phil wondered aloud.
The Virtuous Woman Page 1
